


Emerald

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [18]
Category: Original Work, The West Wing, Velvet Goldmine
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wealthy man in a desert country acquires a new slave. Inspired by a Velvet Goldmine fanfic I read a long time ago, in which Curt has a fever dream about being Brian's slave in a desert setting. Updated with more text.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.  
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.  
> I hope you enjoy this original work/alternate universe, which was inspired by many different stories.  
>   
> Visual reference:  
> Emerald--Ewan McGregor  
> Sanjou--Jonathan Rhys Meyers

The desert sand was like cool, wet grass under his bare feet. The sun beating down on his equally bare shoulders, however, and the constant itching of his throat for water were painful sensations no medicine man’s trance could alleviate—at least, no trance _he_ knew. His wrists were so inflamed from the constant friction of the iron manacles around them that they didn’t even hurt anymore—but he tried to avoid looking down at the raw, bloodied skin anyway.

There were about a dozen of them all chained together, all being forced across the open desert by a handful of foul-smelling, fouler-tempered slavers who alternated between riding the canopied camels and swaggering up and down the line, “motivating” their property with the aid of thick, knotted whips. He didn’t speak their harsh, guttural language, but he _had_ heard their leader—a portly, perspiring man whose only virtue was his greed—chastising his employees for beating his property; no doubt he was concerned that permanent scars would lessen their value.

They had not been traveling long; they were not equipped to spend more than a few days at their punishing pace. They stopped once at midday for a brief sip of water and then not again until the sun fell from the sky, when the captives were given an inadequate scrap of food and forced to huddle together under thin blankets for warmth. Not that any of them really slept well; it was too cold, and many of them—himself included—were tormented by nightmares. He was almost relieved when the snarls of the slavers dragged them to their feet each morning, because at least they were _doing_ something—getting closer to their destination, wherever it was.

He did not think much about the past. It was too painful, to remember what he used to have—and that it was lost forever. Even when he woke himself with a nightmare, he refused to dwell on the images; instead he concentrated on trying to strengthen his trance, to meditate, to locate himself by the stars. The stars were so beautiful in the desert, he noted. He thought of anything but that which would bring him pain, weaken him, because he needed all his strength to make the next day’s journey.

The head slaver was a shrewd man; he did not want to make his journey unless his goods were fit to sell at the end of it. But on the other hand, a few slaves lost here or there meant little in the total scheme. They had lost the man near him just the day before; a strapping, dark-skinned fellow, he had been doing quite well until one night he had caught a chill. He had suffered for a day or two, moaning, shuddering, finally heaving wildly, until he just dropped dead, nearly toppling the whole line over.

But he was still going. He was not going to be beaten. He had no grand plans for escape or revenge; he intended merely to survive, to be unbroken by their torments. He thought no further ahead than that.

At last he thought he saw something on the horizon. Something other than endless sand—something green, perhaps? They stopped for the night early before reaching it; they were given extra food and water and allowed to sleep later in the morning. And then he understood: this was a place where they were to be sold.

They reached it when the sun was at its peak—a large oasis of vibrant green palm trees clustered around a pool of startling clarity. It made his throat ache just to see it. In the meager shade of the trees were a number of brightly-colored tents, many linked to create a large complex. The shimmering cloth came in every color of the rainbow and reflected the sun so brightly his eyes hurt.

The group was quickly herded into one of the tents. The change from blinding sunlight to dim interior was so drastic they were all blinded for a moment, and he stumbled into the man in front of him. The floor beneath their weary feet was a soft pile of satin sheets and tapestries, generously strewn with plump multicolored pillows. As his eyes adjusted to the light from the overhead lanterns, he saw a figure reclining against some of the cushions, a young man with reddish-brown hair past his ears wearing a robe of rich purple. Clearly at ease with the setting, the man stood boredly and spoke to the head slaver, who ordered his captives to face outward for inspection.

So this man was a wealthy merchant, he supposed, a trader at this oasis outpost. He would need plenty of slaves to load and unload the caravans, fetch water, serve his food. The captives would almost certainly have elected to do such labor rather than face the desert again—if any of them weren’t too tired to care. _He_ didn’t care—he didn’t let himself but rather stared at the opposite wall.

Sanjou walked down the line, wrinkling his pale nose in distaste at most of the offerings. His face was angular, sculpted, almost feminine as he eyed the merchandise. The head slaver hovered over his shoulder, offering tips or comments or outright lies about the health or disposition of the slaves. Sanjou ignored him as he would ignore a gnat buzzing in his ear, occasionally flicking at him with the gold fan he carried.

The slaves were ragged, dirty, thin, lifeless. It was difficult for an ordinary person to see any use in them at all, but Sanjou had an eye for spotting the potential in an otherwise unremarkable being.

It was the little things that were important, he had found—the way a captive stood, the way his (or her) eyes gleamed, the way he held his shoulders. By this standard the slave toward the end was practically surrounded by a golden aura. Sanjou stepped closer to examine him—hair that might be blond if it were clean, a build that would always be thin but strong and wiry if properly fed. He did not cower but rather stood almost casually; his eyes were straight ahead, not on the floor. He did not seem to even be paying attention to where he was, which intrigued Sanjou. Of course, that could be a sign of stupidity, or heat madness, but it could also mean other, more interesting things.

He was snapped out of his trance by the touch of a hand on his chin, and he jerked angrily away from the strange merchant. The slaver cursed at him and cuffed him sharply, though not as sharply as if a potential buyer hadn’t been there. The merchant tried again, gripping his jaw more firmly with a surprising strength—surprising because it _wasn’t_ being used to cause him pain at the same time. The merchant turned his face this way, then the other, then stared straight into his eyes for the longest time, until he began to feel uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with his burned shoulders or raw wrists. Then the merchant smiled and released him; he could still feel the place where he had touched him, soothingly cool and burning hot at the same time.

The merchant spoke to the slaver, who hauled out his huge ring of keys and unchained him from the line, shoving him to the center of the tent. He suddenly felt very nervous, very self-conscious, as the merchant circled him, eyes flickering up and down. He was having trouble breathing evenly now, despite his best meditation techniques. There was something about that man, that merchant, that drew him in and at the same time made him want to run away and hide. He had never felt anything like it before.

Sanjou smiled as he examined the man in front of him. He was Sanjou’s age, maybe a touch older, but there was something almost… innocent about him. And he had a clarity in his bright green eyes not often found among the browbeaten slaves. Sanjou had originally been looking for a slave for the stables, but he had a better use in mind for this particular figure.

Sanjou stepped forward and poked at the slave’s back with his fan. His muscles tensed as he started to jerk around, but the slaver held him in place. Sanjou tapped the slave again, squinting at something on his back. “What are these?” he asked in curiosity.

The slaver yanked his merchandise around to better catch the light. Trailing down his spine was a line of dark blue geometric shapes and simple figurines. He’d seen that sort of thing before, on some of the other slaves that came from the east. “Tattoos, sir,” he reported gruffly. “From one of them wild hill tribes, most like.”

Sanjou smiled, intrigued. “How barbaric,” he mused with barely concealed interest.

The slaver’s interest in making a sale was also barely concealed. “Fine and healthy, this one is, sir,” he assured him. “Docile as a lamb, he is—spoke nary a word the whole trip. Maybe he got his tongue cut out somewhere, eh?” The slaved guffawed and slapped the slave’s shoulder in a gesture more menacing than playful.

“That would be unfortunate,” Sanjou commented. “Are you certain?”

“One way to find out, sir.”

The slaver reached a meaty hand towards his face and grabbed his chin; _he_ was not interested in causing no pain. He was being ordered to do something, but he had no idea what, although the slaver didn’t seem to recognize that fact. He felt a sudden burst of rage well up within him and his bound hands snapped up to catch the slaver sharply under the chin. Before the large man had even started to swear, however, he was pinned to the floor by two of the assistant slavers, moaning from a punch to the stomach that came from nowhere.

“Stop,” Sanjou said mildly; the slavers knew what was good for them and froze before raining more discipline down on the errant slave. Sanjou signaled for them to stand the property back up again—he looked none the worse for wear, if a little pained.

“Docile as a lamb?” he said sardonically to the head slaver, who spit a bloody loosened tooth out the doorway.

“Well, you can see he’s got a tongue in him anyway,” the portly man replied, glaring daggers at the property. If Sanjou didn’t buy him, he promised himself, this slave was going to get a good working-over tonight.

Sanjou nodded thoughtfully. He was not concerned with the slaver’s injuries, or his anger; he was merely a distasteful person whom Sanjou found it convenient to deal with on occasion. Should he ever overstep his boundaries, Sanjou’s personal guards were well-trained and equipped to handle him.

“Let’s see the rest of him,” Sanjou ordered.

The slaver ripped away the tattered loincloth the captive had been wearing since—well, he’d forgotten how long. But it was still the only bit of shielding he had left. His face flushed as he felt himself being stared at, as if he were no more than piece of livestock. The merchant appraised him with a raised eyebrow he assumed to be approving, and that made his face redden all the more.

The blond wished he could be anywhere, even back in the hot sun trudging across the desert, than standing in the tent with a burly slaver crushing each arm and that man—that _man_ with the fair skin and the brilliant blue eyes raking his gaze over him, making him squirm with discomfort. Finally the merchant’s eyes wandered up to his own, where he was given a smirk and a wink that nearly made his heart stop.

The merchant turned back to the slaver and spoke with him; it was strange to hear the harsh, guttural tongue coming from the refined man. He had a heavy, cold feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched a bag of coins change hands, knowing he had just been bought, traded, into who knew what kind of life like a cow or a camel. The slavers restraining him released their iron grips and he swayed unsteadily without their support, still aching from the blow he had received. He was not trained as a fighter, a warrior; he was trained to have peace and patience. But the world he was now in was nothing any of his teachers could ever have prepared him for.

The merchant spoke dismissively to the slaver, who was trying to interest him in other property. The merchant’s eyes were only for his new acquisition, who shrank back against the silky wall of the tent in an attempt to escape notice. Glaring at the merchant, who had apparently not been as good a customer as he wished, the slaver roughly led his unsold property back into the sun, followed by his assistants.

Retreating until he could move no farther, the captive watched nervously as the merchant approached him, his unreadable smile ever present. The merchant began speaking, apparently trying several different dialects before the message was intelligible: “I am your master Sanjou, and you are my slave.”

Despite his attempt to conceal his understanding, the merchant Sanjou noticed the captive’s sudden change in tension and his smile widened. “I am no one’s slave,” the blond replied defiantly, but he knew it wasn’t true—his people had not been free for generations, enslaved by their own fears and ignorance. Even as he spoke his eyes dropped to the ground.

Sanjou tipped his chin back up with the edge of his fan. “I’ll hear you call me master before this night is through,” he promised with a knowing smile.

That smile sent a shiver down the blond’s spine and he jerked away. Maybe his people had been willing to submit quietly, but _his_ soul would always be his own. Sanjou saw the surge of defiance flash in the deep green eyes before him and smirked. Yes, this one would be _much_ more fun than the usual dead-eyed slave. Even so, Sanjou wisely stepped back a bit, before he ended up spitting teeth like the slaver had.

“You’ll say it, and you’ll mean it, my little barbarian,” Sanjou assured him, anticipating the struggle with great pleasure. He gestured towards the middle of the satiny room. “Come here.

The blond met his gaze without moving. With a sigh Sanjou glanced at the guards standing at one of the doorways and the two muscular, well-armed men took a threatening step forward. The slave took the hint and hurried to his designated spot. Sanjou smiled indulgently.

“You needn’t be so frightened, little barbarian,” Sanjou told him. “All you have to do is learn your place, and then we will _both_ find enjoyment.”

The merchant trailed his long fingers possessively down the blond’s back in a way that sent the most uncomfortable tingles through his body. He struggled to find a measure of composure, but with that strangely magnetic man so near, near enough to feel his breath on the blond’s neck, it was impossible to concentrate. “Don’t worry, little barbarian,” Sanjou whispered in his ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. Unless of course you deserve it,” he added. The slave’s breath caught, though whether in fear or… _excitement_ he couldn’t tell.

Sanjou stepped back regretfully. It was obvious—despite the man’s attempt to conceal it—that his new pet was enjoying his attentions, even if he seemed a bit confused by them. But first things first.

“A bath for you,” Sanjou announced, “to get the grime of the desert off.” He nodded at a doorway that led deeper into the interior of the tent palace. “Go on.”

A _bath_? The blond had almost forgotten the concept. Despite his exhaustion and growling stomach, a bath sounded like the best thing in the world—but he was afraid of what a bath from this most discomfiting person would entail.

Sanjou tapped his gold-slipped foot impatiently. “A slave obeys the commands given to him, little barbarian,” he pointed out sharply, “or he faces the consequences.” When the other man still hesitated—though this time the look in his eyes was of apprehension, not defiance—Sanjou turned to the guards and spoke in his own language. “Escort my new slave to the bath chambers. And _don’t_ leave any marks on him,” he ordered crisply.

This time when the guards turned towards the blond they didn’t stop with a threat. Taking a bath didn’t sound too bad, he could get himself there without help, really—but apparently his new master had been pushed too far. As the guards grabbed his arms relatively gently and hauled him in the direction Sanjou had indicated, the slave glanced back over his shoulder and saw the merchant watching him with that odd, almost predatory smile, and he shivered. A physical threat he could understand—avoid, endure, survive. But a mental threat, an emotional threat—those he had no strategy for. He’d never been particularly good at understanding people, even those who spoke his language and were supposed to be his friends.

Sanjou followed the trio down the blue satiny hallway, pleased that his new slave appeared alert and curious, glancing around the lantern-lit area with interest. Sanjou himself was quite enjoying the view directly in front of him, until he raised his eyes to frown at the line of dark blue tattoos again.

“What tribe of barbarians do you come from, slave?” he asked, using the generic Eastern trade dialect that had worked before.

“We aren’t barbarians,” the blond protested. The guards glanced at one another and tightened their grip on his upper arms, sensing tension in his tone.

“Oh, really?” Sanjou replied, amused. “And what do you call people who etch their strange symbols into someone’s flesh, hmmm?”

The blond debated a moment, just a moment, before replying in a careful voice. “At least we don’t keep slaves.”

“Halt!” Sanjou ordered the guards, before they could push aside a fuchsia flap covering a doorway, and the slave became a little nervous at the silence that followed, cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut. The idea was to _avoid_ a beating, wasn’t it?

The merchant appeared in front of him, but he knew better than to look up. Then his chin was caught in a grip that was not quite as gentle as before and yanked higher. The merchant’s deep blue eyes appeared more amused than angry, however. “Well, I know _you_ are the barbarian and _I_ am not, because _I_ have had a bath today,” he commented with a smirk. “And after you’ve had yours, we’ll find a better use for your tongue than backtalk.” He chuckled at the slave’s alarmed expression, then drew the flap aside to reveal the bath chamber, one of his favorite rooms.

The blond looked around in wonder, pushing the merchant’s last comment to the back of his mind. As an intellectual exercise—it _was_ his training, after all, in designing buildings for his village—he had been unable to determine the support structure of the tent palace. Perhaps, like an insect, its structure was on the outside? And this new room was even more amazing. The walls—still fabric—appeared to be oiled to withstand the constant moisture generated by the huge porcelain tub in the center; it was round and easily six feet across, its water giving off a fog of steam. In the back corner was a screened section hiding several smaller tubs, and off to the side a cabinet filled with towels, jars, and bottles.

Sanjou gestured to the guards. “Come along now. Mind the floor, it’s slippery.”

A tile floor! Not just tile, but a mosaic, forming some kind of sun pattern. Was the tile resting on a fabric base? Had it been laid directly on the sand? How was one to account for the temperature gradient caused by—

The slave had missed the guards’ gruff order, staring avidly at the floor, so Sanjou told them to just toss the man into the tub. Barbarians, he thought, rolling his eyes—probably never seen a mosaic before. The blond howled like a drowning cat as he struggled to right himself, his bound hands making him awkward and unsteady. Sanjou finally grabbed his arm—still some muscle there, good—and hauled him back to the bench lining the tub underwater. For his trouble he got a wet arm and a sharp glare.

“Might have known barbarians would be afraid of a _bath_ ,” Sanjou said grumpily, wringing out his wet sleeve.

Still spitting water, the blond replied quickly, “It’s _drowning_ I’m afraid—“

Sanjou looked up to see what had cut him off, and then smiled. A gaggle of young women from his private harem—all exquisitely dressed to tantalize without revealing—had slipped in from another entrance and were busy picking out jars and bottles.

“A new slave, my darlings,” Sanjou told them, signaling the guards to wait outside. “He’s been out in the desert for who knows how long, and I want him clean from top”—he paused for effect—“to bottom.”

The slave blushed at the giggling that ensued at Sanjou’s comment, guessing it was probably about him, and squirmed uncomfortably in the water that was almost too hot. He had never been this close to a woman when in this particularly vulnerable state of undress, let alone _seven_ women. Seven women who were marching over to him with determination, brandishing washcloths and soap and pushing up their flowing sleeves—

Sanjou laughed at the expression on the blond’s face when the first woman dunked a washcloth into the water right beside him. He might have been facing a firing squad instead of a cluster of harem girls who were most insistent on bathing him—and who wouldn’t take no for an answer, Sanjou observed, as one woman smacked the slave’s resisting arm and yanked him closer. The merchant almost felt sorry for him. Or at least he would have, if the sight of the blond man dripping wet hadn’t been so appealing.

So there was a streak of defiance in him. Sanjou could live with that, as long as he knew his place. It might liven things up around here, he thought. And if the new slave ever _did_ overstep his bounds—Sanjou smiled to think of the many delightful punishments, none of them permanently debilitating, that he could inflict upon him.

The blond had to admit the bath felt wonderful. He’d never been _given_ a bath before, at least not since he was a young child, and the sensation of being thoroughly scrubbed by knowledgeable and energetic hands was certainly refreshing. Of course, he reflected, dodging a washcloth aimed at a sensitive area, sometimes the hands were _too_ energetic. The women talked and laughed as they worked, sometimes teasing or lightly chastising him—at least that was what he gathered from their tones. He just smiled back shyly when they looked at him, which seemed to be the appropriate response.

Something sweet-smelling and cold was poured on his head and he closed his eyes just in time. Strong hands jerked through his hair, working it into a lather. An instant later he was rinsed with the aid of a bucket of too-cold water, but his indignant yelp only resulted in a mouthful of soapy water. The women’s laughter had barely calmed before they started the process over.

Sanjou smiled a little from his out-of-the-way vantage point. If the new slave wasn’t exactly ‘docile as a lamb,’ he at least wasn’t dangerous, the merchant decided. Oh, he had a few good moves in him—someone was undoubtedly scrubbing the bloodstain from the filthy trader’s tooth off his satin floor right now—but the young man was clearly no warrior. He had long, slender fingers, a friendly disposition, just a touch of rebellion—and most likely a core of inner strength, to have gotten across the desert with the light still in those beautiful green eyes… he could have been a farmer, perhaps, or an artist. Something peaceful, anyway.

But Sanjou made a point of _not_ dwelling on the past lives of his slaves—too much knowledge could lead to sympathy, and sympathy led to slaves who thought they could do whatever they wanted because the Master ‘liked’ them. Sanjou was not a harsh master; he knew what those were like, his own father had been one. Sanjou, in contrast, was generous in his positive reinforcement of his slaves’ behavior, making sure even the lowliest stable boy was properly fed and housed, given medical attention and even the occasional day off. He was not a man who believed an act of kindness was an act of weakness. _But_ —he was equally generous, and twice as swift, with punishments if someone disobeyed him. It was the combination of the two methods, he believed, that had made him so successful.

And in keeping with his successful methods, he set aside idle sympathetic thoughts about his new slave. He was curious, of course—curious to know what those barbaric markings stood for, for instance. But the blond—and all his other slaves—belonged to him now, and any dreams of their lost homes must be as impossible to achieve as a return to a lost childhood.

A low giggle and splashing caught Sanjou’s attention, and he saw that the harem women were attempting to scrub the little barbarian’s feet. The rather awkward position required—and the fact that he was quite ticklish—were making the job unexpectedly comical. Sanjou bit his lip, trying not to lose all authority and snicker. Think of something else, he told himself. Think of licking those tender, smiling lips, of caressing the slender limbs, feeling the tension in those lean muscles build until—

The slave felt the merchant’s eyes boring into him, burning, and he couldn’t help but meet his gaze above the rim of the tub. Sanjou’s eyes were like sapphires with a flame behind them, igniting a trail of fire down the slave’s body. He stilled, unable to breathe for a moment as his heart seemed to twist like ice in his chest. His thoughts swirled through his mind in a confusion of conflicting desires that frightened him, and he was relieved when the merchant finally broke the eye contact himself, ordering the servants to do something in his flowing but foreign tongue.

The women tugged on the slave’s arms, encouraging him to stand and then climb over the side of the tub, where he stood shivering on the cold tile floor as they dried him with fleecy towels. He noted uncomfortably that Sanjou was watching him again, but he refused to give in to the temptation to glance up, preferring instead to find the drying of his shins absolutely fascinating.

After a few moments the women scurried out, leaving the two men alone in the damp room. The blond stood still, head still bowed, until the flowing robe of the merchant came into his line of vision and a firm but gentle hand lifted his chin. Sanjou smiled at him—a smirk, really, but with more of a smile in it than before—and lightly ran his thumb along his tensed jaw. A slight shudder ran down the slave’s spine, an involuntary response to the still air on his wet skin. Obviously.

“Come, my pet,” Sanjou told him indulgently. “Let’s go someplace a little warmer, shall we?”


	2. Chapter 2

"Come on, Emerald, it would be _darling_ ," Sanjou cajoled, running his fingers enticingly through the blond hair of the man sitting next to him on the padded lounge.

"It would _hurt_ ," Emerald countered with a pout, crossing his arms over his chest resolutely.

Sanjou held the dangling gold earring up to his slave's ear, watching the deep green stones sparkle as they caught the light from the oil lamps. "But look how pretty this one is," he continued. "Look, it matches your eyes, darling."

"It would _hurt_ ," Emerald repeated sullenly.

"Sometimes a little pain is good for you, precious," Sanjou told him, squeezing his thigh a bit too tightly. Seeing the unreceptive glint in Emerald's eyes the merchant sighed and dropped the piece of jewelry back in the small chest on the floor. "You're eager to get all your little barbarian tattoos carved into your skin, but you won't even get your ears pierced," he complained disgustedly.

"I could get my ears pierced," Emerald offered suddenly, sliding one leg against his master's back and wrapping his arm around his shoulders.

"Yes?" Sanjou asked, slightly suspicious, even as he caressed Emerald's bare stomach in return.

"...if _you_ got a tattoo, Master," the blond finished, leaning in to nuzzle his neck.

Sanjou tilted his head to give Emerald better access. "Never!" he insisted. "Someone might mistake me for a savage."

"You could get it somewhere people wouldn't see," Emerald suggested, hands dancing across a few such places, "unless you wanted them to."

"Hmmm..." Sanjou replied, momentarily distracted. "What sort of design do you think would be appropriate?"

"Well, maybe a small--"

The delicate jangling of the bells tied to the edges of the door flap, followed by a throat clearing, broke the solitude of Sanjou's main chamber. Emerald pulled back a bit allowing his master to glance with slight annoyance at the young boy who had crept into the room. "Yes, what is it?" Sanjou asked brusquely.

The boy, slender and dark-haired with almond-shaped eyes, bowed awkwardly and tripped over his message. "You have a visitor, Master," he said nervously. "She says her name is--"

A high-pitched giggling from the entryway caused Sanjou to blanch even more than his usual pale tone. "Hide, Emerald," he told him urgently, practically pushing the blond to the floor behind the lounge. "Go on to the bedroom, before she--"

"Sanjou!" With a smile of almost comical tightness Sanjou turned back to the doorway to greet a person Emerald thought he'd never see--someone who made his master look modest by comparison. The woman was gaudily attired in layers of colorful, flowing satins and silks, with jewels glittering on every surface. Her hair--a deep red-brown like Sanjou's--was elaborately dressed and piled on top of her head, and her fair complexion was unsubtly accented with cosmetics which, Emerald felt, made her look rather older than she really was. Money could obviously not buy taste.

"Amaya, darling," the merchant replied with a slight hint of enthusiasm that only highlighted the near-total lack of it. "How lovely to see you, and on such short notice, too."

"Oh, now, now, dear brother," Amaya scolded, opening her arms for a hug, "I know full well that if I had told you I was coming out this way you would have invented an emergency trip to the coast or a quarantine or something, all to avoid me. Such terrible manners. I know for a fact your father taught you differently."

Sanjou gave her a moderately affectionate embrace and a kiss on her powdered cheek. "Avoiding relatives is _exactly_ what Father taught me," he replied, but his tone was warmer--that is, until Amaya glanced over his shoulder and her eyes lit up afresh.

"Well who is this little cutie," she began with glee, spotting Emerald crouching behind the lounge.

"Oh Amaya, leave him alone," Sanjou insisted, to no avail.

Although Emerald's grasp of the main language spoken in Sanjou's household was improving rapidly, he still wasn't sure of everything being said. The coaxing yet predatory tone of the overwhelming woman approaching him, however, was easy to understand, and he started to back away.

"Oh, don't be afraid, little darling," she cooed. Amaya produced something orangey-pink from a pocket which she waved temptingly in Emerald's direction. It smelled delicious, sort of sweet and fruity, and he leaned closer for a better look. "Yes, I'm sure your master doesn't get many of these around here," she continued in the same tone reserved for crawling infants, pulling the treat just out of Emerald's reach. "It's awfully yummy. Don't you want some?" Emerald narrowed his eyes at her and suddenly shot forward, climbing over the lounge and biting off part of the bribe. Appearances to the contrary, she was smart enough to anticipate his movement and backed up so he only got a small taste of the slightly apricot-flavored bit of dried fruit.

Sanjou sighed in frustration. "Amaya, don't you have enough slaves of your own to torment?" he asked with annoyance. As if on cue a very large, muscular man wearing very little clothing and hefting a large trunk as easily as Sanjou carried his fan stomped through the doorway. "Like Bunt, for instance--surely he must be a pile of fun."

Amaya rolled her eyes. " _Bront_ , dear brother," she corrected sarcastically. She flashed the piece of fruit before Emerald, who was now determined to have the rest of it. "That's it, precious, come out here where I can see you."

Sanjou wrinkled his nose at the new slave in distaste. "A big, squishy, smelly pile of fun," he continued to no one in particular. Bront certainly didn't seem to notice.

With Emerald finally kneeling on the floor where she wanted him, Amaya allowed him the rest of the dried fruit and set about inspecting him with open admiration. "My, my, he's a pretty one, isn't he?" she commented, running her hands through his golden hair. "How on earth is it you find all the pretty ones, Sanjou?" She ran her hands over Emerald's skin, pale from lack of sunlight, and slid her fingers down his arms, feeling the muscles under the sleeves of his light blue satin robe. "And in such good condition," she added. "What's your training program?"

"I don't have a training program. I just flog them if they get out of shape," Sanjou replied sourly, crossing his arms.

Emerald tried pulling away from the strange woman a bit, but she merely dangled another piece of the fruit in front of him and he gave in. He could stand a little petting, he decided, chewing on the treat. It had an odd, slightly... _sparky_ aftertaste that he was beginning to enjoy, and anyway she didn't look nearly so tacky up close. In fact, she was probably a little younger than Sanjou.

"What are you giving him there?" the merchant demanded petulantly. His sister just had a way of walking in and taking over everything and there never seemed to be anything he could do about it. "Don't ruin his dinner."

"Something yummy, isn't it?" Amaya teased, feeding Emerald another slice while she slid the robe off his shoulders. "Ooh, tattoos...how barbaric!" She ran her fingertips lightly over the dark blue designs, dipping a little bit lower than was really necessary. Emerald shivered pleasantly. "I don't suppose he's clipped, is he?"

"Of course not," her brother replied, hands on his hips as he watched his favorite slave enjoy himself far too much. "It's not a problem for _me_."

"I could have him clipped, I suppose," Amaya mused, tilting his chin up to check his green eyes for clarity. "Although he's so pretty, maybe I could have his baby first."

"Honestly," Sanjou muttered, rolling his eyes. "Don't you have enough children?"

She ignored him and fed Emerald yet another piece of dried fruit as she felt the muscles in his calves. "Really, Amaya, he doesn't like that," the merchant tried to warn her. "He'll take your head off." He was half-hoping Emerald would--in the past he had reacted badly to strangers who touched him half as intimately as his sister was--but this time he rather seemed to be enjoying it.

"Nonsense," she told him. "He likes it. You obviously don't give him enough attention." Sanjou knew Emerald was understanding at least most of the conversation when the slave arched an eyebrow at him as if agreeing. "If he's a bedslave, let's see what exactly he has to work with," she continued, her questing fingers reaching for the waistband of Emerald's satin leggings.

That was the last straw. Sanjou wasn't going to see _his_ slave fondled right in front of him--and enjoy it, too!--even if he _was_ a cheeky little tramp. "Emerald," he said in the Eastern trade dialect he usually used with the blond, "she castrates all her men."

The simple statement had exactly the effect he'd hoped. Within an instant Emerald grabbed Amaya's wrist before it could hit a sensitive area and gently held it away while he snatched up his fallen robe. Standing gracefully, he stole one more slice of fruit before retreating back behind the lounge, maddening smirk only half-concealed. Sanjou glared at him as he sat down on the bench, trying hard to ignore his melting puppy-dog eyes. "Slut," he snapped, even as Emerald leaned his head against his master's hip and chuckled.

Amaya looked suitably disappointed to have her prize taken away and she stood with pursed lips. "Well, it's not as if _you_ need him for children," she pointed out sullenly. "You could loan him to me for just a while."

"Are you saying dear Bront doesn't fulfill your every need, sister?" Sanjou asked, gesturing behind her to the muscular slave.

She glanced at him then sighed in exasperation. "Bront, you can put that down, you know," she told him, and Bront obediently set the heavy chest on the floor. "Not right _there_ , Bront, we're going to be _sitting_ there," Amaya added with irritation. Sanjou tried not to smirk, although not very hard, as Bront quickly moved the chest out of the way.

Emerald pushed his head under the merchant's hand, insisting on attention, and Sanjou finally relented and ran his slender fingers through his hair. Amaya narrowed her eyes at the golden haired slave for a moment, then quickly fluttered her long gowns and settled herself on a cushion on the floor. "Have you lost all your hospitality skills since the last time I was here, brother?" she asked tartly, and Sanjou rolled his eyes.

"Boy," he said, nodding to the servant boy who stood attentively nearby, "tell them to bring out the meal." The child bowed awkwardly and hurried out of the room. Sanjou dropped to the floor from his lounge and Emerald slithered out underneath it, making sure he sat on the far side from Amaya, just in case.

"Sit down, Bront," Amaya ordered wearily, and the slave happily plopped down next to her, across from Emerald. Both he and Sanjou immediately wished he were wearing a longer loincloth, but as in all things Bront was completely oblivious.

Servants began to sweep into the room, placing a wooden board down between the diners that was quickly loaded with a variety of meats, fruits, breads, and cheeses.


	3. Chapter 3

Few things had changed in the extravagantly luxurious main chamber since Thadru had been there last--perhaps the walls were hung with a different color of satin, and the deep green jade carving in the corner was certainly new. But still every entrance was flanked by muscular guards; still the scent of exotic flowers pervaded the space; still it was strewn with the pillows in a riot of colors, among which his host lounged decadently.

There was something else new, however--a slave, presumably, whom Thadru didn't recognize. Not that Thadru had spent much time with the slaves on his last visit, but his host's favorites were always constantly about--and this one was definitely a favorite. Eyes closed under shaggy blond hair, he lay on the floor on his stomach, practically purring as Sanjou ran a slender hand over his shoulders. Every once in a while he would smile a little at something his master was saying, raising his head from his arms slightly to catch the merchant's low tones. Thadru almost felt like he was intruding when a servant boy scuttled up to Sanjou's side to whisper of his presence.

The merchant looked up with a smile. "Thadru!" he greeted warmly, gesturing for him to enter the room. "You're early, my friend. We weren't expecting you for several more days."

"The caravan I was traveling with had the good fortune to sell almost all its goods at the first few outposts," the older man explained easily, striding across the silken floor. "I think we made the trip here in record time." He sank onto the soft pillows and clasped the merchant's hand briefly in a gesture of greeting. "I hope my early arrival doesn't inconvenience you?" he added in a more serious tone.

Sanjou waved him off. "Of course not!" he insisted warmly. "Food for my guest, boy," he told the servant who waited attentively, and the boy hurried off. He turned back to Thadru. "But how have you been? What has kept you away from us for so long?"

Thadru started to reply, then noticed out of the corner of his eye the new slave watching him warily, eyes narrowed, body poised to move quickly--although in which direction he wasn't sure. Still, the sight unnerved him a bit, just long enough for Sanjou to follow his gaze and roll his own eyes.

"Emerald," the merchant chastised indulgently, "do behave yourself, darling. You're putting my guest off." The blond looked up at his master uncomprehendingly, but visibly relaxed when Sanjou resumed running his fingers through his hair. The merchant said a few words to him in some sort of Eastern trade dialect with which Thadru was not familiar and the slave closed his eyes again, seemingly content to be petted.

Sanjou turned back to Thadru with an expression of mock exasperation. "Do forgive Emerald, my friend," he told him. "He's learned to dislike strange visitors." He playfully pinched the slave's earlobe and Emerald responded by pretending to bite his fingers. "Isn't he adorable?"

Thadru smiled. His friend was thoroughly smitten by the slave--but then he usually was, by one or another. Last time it had been a woman with copper-colored skin and almond-shaped eyes. Thadru wondered briefly what had happened to her and hoped she hadn't fallen so far out of Sanjou's favor that he'd gotten rid of her, sold her to another less generous master.

Thadru wasn't naive--he knew that the magnificent buildings he designed could not be erected without the labor of slaves, and that as long as slaves were used to raise buildings, till fields, and serve food, they would also be used to bring pleasure more directly to their masters. Still, he was uncomfortable with the notion of slavery, with the subjugation of one being by another more powerful--as if slaves, too, didn't have dreams of success, love, happiness, achievement, the same as their masters. Thoughts like these were what made his drinking companions chuckle at him and shake their heads, calling him an idealist and challenging him to design a society without slaves as perfectly as he designed palaces. To that end, he had no inspired ideas.

As he and Sanjou continued to exchange pleasantries, bowls and platters of food were brought out by the servants, some of whom Thadru recognized. A polished board was laid down on the floor in front of them, to balance the goblets and plates, as delicacy after delicacy was set before the men. Clearly Sanjou had not lost his taste for expensive living. At the sight of food Emerald the slave also perked up, scooting himself forward and eyeing a bowl of grapes on the end of the board.

"Thadru, it has been nearly a year since you promised to design my outpost for me," Sanjou reminded him, delicately nibbling a piece of fowl. "When you left you said you would be gone for only a few weeks."

Thadru nodded sheepishly, trying not to make too much of a mess with the juicy mango slice he had chosen. "I know, and I apologize, sir," he assured him. "It's just that when I got to Cairo I was told the Pharaoh wanted to see me"--Emerald, thinking he was being surreptitious, snaked out a slender, muscular arm toward the glazed red bowl of enormous black grapes, only to have his hand smacked by his master; Thadru pretended not to notice--"and I couldn't very well refuse, you know."

"Oh, of course," Sanjou agreed easily, moving the bowl of grapes an inch or so farther away from his slave.

"And then Pharaoh was busy, as I suppose Pharaohs are," Thadru continued, dripping honey from a pastry on his greyish tunic, "and I had to wait for several weeks before I actually had an audience with him. Not that I really minded, of course," he added hurriedly, in case anyone listening were inclined to start an unfavorable rumor about him, "but it was just rather inconvenient. I couldn't even leave the city limits without Pharaoh's permission, in case I tried to sneak off without seeing him, I guess."

Sanjou nodded sympathetically and bit into a ripe, golden plum--amazingly, without dribbling any juice down his chin, the already sticky Thadru noted helplessly. "How was Cairo? Had they improved the smell at all?"

"The smell?" Thadru fumbled with a handful of sweetgrass that would rather tangle his fingers than stay in the bowl. "Oh, yes, the sewer system. I remember you mentioning it before. They must have, because it smelled fine the whole time we were there, although, being a large city"--once again, Emerald casually unfolded his arm from its place under his chin and slid it in the direction of the grapes, only to have Sanjou slap it back, though not hard enough to really cause pain--"it did have a certain distinct odor, which they tried to cover up by burning spices in the torches every night."

"Spices in the torches?" Sanjou repeated with interest, raising a red-brown eyebrow. "Hmmm, I wonder if that would work in the lanterns here...I wouldn't mind having the place smell like cinnamon on occasion. Or cardamom, perhaps." He picked the bowl of grapes up and moved to the other end of the board, far out of Emerald's reach. "Rather an expensive way to go about it, though, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, um, rather," Thadru agreed, distracted by the large, hard stone in the middle of the exotic red fruit he'd tried.

"Better spit that out, my friend, it's poisonous," Sanjou advised easily.

Thadru wasted no time in removing the offending seed. "Um, but anyway," he continued, trying to remember what their last topic was, "Cairo was really quite beautiful. Very cosmopolitan now, you know, what with the university there and all. I spent quite a lot of time in the library, going over old architectural plans."

He started to reach for one of the black grapes--so enormous they would take two bites to finish off--when Emerald suddenly sat up and slinked across the silken floor to his master's side, not that slinking was difficult when he was also clad in deep green satin. Creeping along quite subserviently, he positively slithered up to Sanjou's ear and whispered something in it that brought a smile to the merchant's face.

Sanjou stroked him under the chin for a moment, then relented with an indulgent, "Well, alright then." He leaned forward towards the bowl of grapes, but Emerald stopped him, sliding sensually across the merchant's mustard-yellow satin leggings to fetch the bowl himself. Once he had retrieved his prize, he sat back down crosslegged, bowl cradled in his lap, to savor the juicy fruits.

Sanjou watched him for a moment to be sure he was settled, then turned back to Thadru with an expression that couldn't hide how immensely pleased with himself he was. The older man just shook his head with a smile; though he might be a slave, this Emerald had clearly wrapped his master around his little finger.

"But Thadru," Sanjou continued as if the whole interlude hadn't occurred, "you never told me what Pharaoh wanted to see you about."

"Oh, right, that." Thadru couldn't help but admire Sanjou's ability to eat the sticky, drippy, rich foods without getting so much as a crumb on himself. He supposed it was a trait one learned growing up surrounded by such luxury...and he certainly hadn't had that opportunity, he reflected as he gnawed somewhat indelicately on a piece of roasted duck.

"It was just to tell me how much he admired Oliro's work on one of the university buildings--you remember Oliro?" Sanjou nodded, idly running his fingers through his shoulder-length red-brown hair. The golden bracelets on his pale wrist clanged musically. "Well, he got a job designing one of the university buildings," Thadru continued, "the observatory, I think, and Pharaoh wanted to compliment me for teaching him well. Or not squashing his natural talent, I guess," he added quickly, fearing he sounded immodest.

Sanjou laughed. "Give yourself a bit more credit, my friend," he insisted. "Oliro could hardly draw a straight line when you took him on as apprentice." He shook his head, reaching for a handful of dark berries. "I'll never understand what it was you saw in him."

"I guess I just felt sorry for him," Thadru remarked, digging into a soft papaya. "Trapped as a stable slave for the rest of his life--" He froze and glanced up at his host in horror as he realized what he'd just said. Sanjou arched an eyebrow at him but didn't appear to be angry. "I'm sorry, Sanjou," he began hurriedly, "I didn't mean--"

"Well of _course_ you did, my friend," the merchant replied easily. "Both my father and I knew Oliro was a _terrible_ stable slave--in fact he was rather bad at _everything_ he did, and we thought he could do the least damage in the stables."

Thadru released the breath he'd been holding, grateful Sanjou chose to overlook his slip of the tongue. "Goodness knows," Sanjou continued, "we gave him ample opportunity to demonstrate his talents in _every_ area."

The merchant gave Thadru a narrow look as the visitor winced a bit, thinking of his former assistant being tried out as a bedslave by both his host and his late friend, Sanjou's father. The reminder, he knew, was Sanjou's punishment for his careless remark. But at least now the slight tension he'd caused had been disipated.

"Of course," Sanjou smiled, "now I wish I'd kept him around. Who knew I would someday need an architect?"

Thadru smiled in return. "I've been working on your outpost for a while, actually," he assured his host. "I have almost all the plans drawn--subject to your approval, of course."

He was about to go on when Emerald moved again, setting aside the bowl of grapes he had apparently tired of and slinking back up to Sanjou's ear. He whispered something, but his master shook his head with a frown. Undeterred the slave flashed a charming smile and repeated his request, his lips just barely brushing Sanjou's skin.

Thadru shifted uncomfortably and busied himself wondering if the slave's name of Emerald had anything to do with his brilliant green eyes that sparkled in the lantern light. Again Sanjou refused whatever it was Emerald had asked. Turning on what had to be his most subservient smile, Emerald nipped his master's earlobe--and the hand sliding up Sanjou's inner thigh was probably equally persuasive.

"Oh, fine, then," the merchant sighed. Emerald did not quite succeed in hiding his triumphant grin as he pulled away and reached for the table. Sanjou grabbed his wrist before he could find whatever he was looking for, however, and Emerald obediently sat back on his heels. Sanjou took a small handful of dried figs from one of the bowls and held one out to the slave temptingly.

"He adores figs," the merchant explained to his guest, "but they just aren't good for him. He'll make himself sick--" Sanjou's words died in his throat as Emerald took the fig not with his hand but with his teeth, neatly biting it in half. He sprawled out on the pillowy floor with his head near Sanjou's lap, chewing as if he didn't have the complete attention of everyone in the room. Sanjou tried to tame his smile as he looked back at Thadru and continued, "He'll make himself sick if I just give him the bowlful. He's just not good at resisting temptation."

Thadru smiled weakly. He'd always been uncomfortable with the bedslaves of Sanjou's father, too--they were the saddest of all, he thought. At least other slaves didn't have to act as though they _enjoyed_ their duties--they didn't have to flatter their masters and hand over the most intimate use of their bodies on command. Thadru knew that some of them--like Emerald, for example--really seemed to enjoy their roles, but how much of that was simple survival, for their minds as well as their bodies? To him it was the worst kind of subjugation--at least cooks and stonemasons and even stable boys could have their hearts and minds to themselves.

Sanjou failed to notice his discomfort, or, more likely, chose to ignore it. "Isn't he precious?" he raved delightedly, petting Emerald's hair. "He's only been here a few months. He's from some barbarian hill tribe." He fed the slave the other half of the fig, and Emerald very deliberately licked his fingers as he took the fruit. Sanjou was trying hard to pay attention to his guest. "I've been trying to teach him to speak a civilized language, but--"

"Barbarian," Emerald intoned clearly, in a voice like rich honey over gravel. Thadru was surprised to find himself intrigued by the blond--he normally wasn't even attracted to other men, let alone bedslaves. But there was something about him, something oddly familiar, or maybe reminiscent--

"--he has difficulty mastering it," Sanjou concluded. "Personally I just don't think he's applying himself, because he's rather clever otherwise. Fortunately we have a trade dialect in common--"

"Master," Emerald repeated seductively, using just his tongue to maneuver another fig from Sanjou's hand. The merchant watched his activities with an unwavering gaze, oblivious to anything else, until he finally glanced back at his neglected guest and laughed a little bit, shaking his head. Emerald also chuckled, as if the two of them had been caught getting into mischief by a disapproving adult.

"Well, you can see I got my money's worth, anyway," Sanjou commented dryly.

Thadru decided to ask the question he'd wondered about earlier. "What happened to that girl you used to have, that dark-haired one--" He struggled for a better description as Sanjou thought back. "She was expecting, I think."

"Oh, Astraea," his host remembered with a smile.

"Yes, that's it, Astraea," Thadru repeated, then noticed Emerald staring at him with his very unnerving, suspicious gaze yet again.

"She had a boy," Sanjou informed him. "Fine child. Looks rather like me. But if you were hoping to try her out, I'm afraid you're too late. She belongs to Emerald now, and he's rather protective of her."

That would explain why Emerald looked as though he wanted to rip Thadru's throat out as neatly as he severed another fig. Sanjou calmed him with a few reassuring words his guest didn't understand and the slave relaxed more, although Thadru swore he was paying more attention to their conversation now.

"No, no, nothing like that," he insisted, trying to make his feelings clear in any language. "I just remembered her, is all." After a moment Sanjou's statement hit him. "You gave her to Emerald?" he repeated--a rather unusual arrangement, a slave owning a slave himself.

"A little reward," Sanjou told him offhand, ignoring Emerald's hopeful gaze and eating the last fig himself. In its place he held out a tidbit of honey-glazed duck, but Emerald wrinkled his nose and pulled back.

Sanjou smiled and popped the bite into his own mouth. "He doesn't eat meat, isn't that bizarre?" He moved a bowl of almonds in front of Emerald, who helped himself. "If I didn't make him eat nuts and cheese I swear he'd waste away to nothing. Fancy trying to survive on plants." Sanjou rolled his eyes disdainfully--a gesture mimicked by his slave that Thadru thought his host had missed until Sanjou pulled a lock of his blond hair a bit too tightly.

"He's a bit cheeky, too," the merchant concluded, "but I suppose one must have some challenges in life." After a moment of silence, he asked, "I should love to see those plans, Thadru." His visitor started to look around for his bags and realized they'd already been taken to his room. "But you've had a long journey today--tomorrow will be soon enough. You simply _must_ take advantage of my slaves' talents, my friend. A hot bath and a massage will make you utterly forget the last several hours of camel-back riding you've endured."

Thadru had to admit his offer was tempting--he could only imagine how he had offended his host's nose, coming straight from the reliable but foul-smelling mount. Make that reliable but foul-smelling and uncomfortable mount, he added, feeling the muscles in his back twinge when he stood. "Thank you," he told him politely. "Your hospitality is always more than generous. I will see you again in the morning, then?"

"Morning, afternoon, whenever you feel like rising," Sanjou assured him. "There's no rush. The boy will show you to your room."

"Thank you," Thadru repeated, backing slightly towards the main exit and the slender child who waited for him there. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, my friend," Sanjou told him.

"Goodnight," Thadru heard behind him, this time in Emerald's warm, rough tone, and he couldn't tell if he was merely parroting them or actually conveying a message. The last thing he heard as he passed through the silken doorway was the low laughter of his host and his pet slave, no doubt picking back up on whatever activity his arrival had interrupted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanjou and his entourage--including slave Emerald, aka Drakkar in their language--visit the White House (populated by the cast of The West Wing).

“Well, they’re certainly the most colorful delegation we’ve had in a while,” Sam Seaborn commented, glancing surreptitiously through the glass doors to the Roosevelt Room.

“Did they send you a robe?” asked C.J. Cregg, double-checking her binder.

“Pure silk,” Sam confirmed. “Very nice. Sort of electric orange, though.”

“Were you planning on wearing it somewhere?” asked Josh Lyman, straightening his dark blue tie.

“I guess not,” Sam admitted. “What color was your robe?”

“Black,” Josh told him. “Cool, elegant, sophisticated. Just like me.”

“Mine was read,” C.J. offered. “Sort of vibrant, energetic, yet classy.”

“Mine was _orange_ ,” Sam repeated. “Gaudy, blinding, clashes with everything.”

“But orange is also so…” began C.J., then stopped as she struggled to think of a word. “So… cheerful.”

“Cheerful,” Sam replied, mulling it over.

“May I remind you that _I_ did not get a robe at all?” Donna Moss put in, restraightening Josh’s tie.

“You’ve reminded me of that five times today,” Josh responded somewhat testily.

“I’m just saying that if Sam doesn’t want his hideous orange robe, I could take it off his hands,” Donna said.

“It’s not hideous,” Sam decided. “It’s cheerful.”

“What are we standing out here for, people?” Toby Ziegler asked, marching up to the group. “Let’s get in there.”

Seven visitors to the White House—and the country—quieted their conversation when the senior staffers entered the room. The leader, a fair-skinned man dressed in a deep purple satin tunic and leggings, stepped forward with a genial smile which Toby did his best to return.

“Good morning, Alreza Sanjou,” Toby greeted professionally. He much preferred it when Leo started these things off—he was so much better at it.

“And good morning to you, too, Mr. Ziegler,” the Alreza replied, with a posh British accent and a slightly impish smile. Toby shifted uncomfortably and reintroduced the staffers who would be present at the meeting. Sanjou had met them briefly the day before.

“And you remember my advisors?” the Alreza returned, gesturing towards the five people lined up behind him clutching notepads and PalmTops. Each bowed slightly as he said their name—Cherisma, a dark-skinned woman in a deep yellow gown, the military advisor; Jadarian, a young copper-skinned man in a silvery costume, the trade advisor; Rethaniel, a fair-skinned man in brown, the education advisor; Zenani, a young woman with almond-shaped eyes, dressed in dark blue, the agriculture advisor; and finally Aniello, an older copper-skinned man in deep fuchsia, the health advisor. A colorful delegation indeed.

As usual, there was one person present who was not introduced, a pale-skinned, blond-haired young man with a bashful demeanor. The day before, he had been dressed in light blue; today it was a deep green robe that tied around his waist and matching satin leggings—the color accentuated his green eyes. Sanjou called him Drakkar, but he hardly ever spoke and no one else ever spoke to him. Some kind of personal assistant, perhaps?

Pleasantries complete, Toby gestured towards the large conference table, where the White House staffers were already placed. Gracefully Sanjou curled up into one of the mustard-yellow chairs, but the others hesitated until he spoke to them in their native language. Then they began awkwardly settling into the chairs, shifting positions and glancing at each other nervously. The mysterious Drakkar knelt in the chair next to Sanjou, a pad of paper in his arms as if about to take notes.

“Is anything wrong?” Toby asked in a somewhat diplomatic tone.

Sanjou waved it off with a pale, elegant hand. “We don’t have a lot of chairs in Lurachel,” he commented. “Chairs are a great equalizer, have you noticed? They bring everyone up to the same height. But I suppose it’s alright for the moment, as long as they don’t get used to it,” he added, giving his advisors a significant glance.

“Get used to what?” Sam asked in confusion.

“Sitting at the same level I am,” Sanjou replied easily. “In Lurachel I would be on a bench or some such thing while my advisors would sit on the floor around me. Unless we were eating, of course.”

The White House staffers exchanged a significant glance of their own but decided not to pursue it. Instead Josh opened up the folder Donna had prepared for him and began the meeting with what they hoped was an easy topic, the state of Lurachel’s natural resources.

Lurachel was an odd country, situated in the center of Africa and covering a good chunk of desert. Instead of being a democracy or a monarchy, the ruling class of Lurachel called it a trade federation—a network of merchants and producers who had decided to band together for the benefit of all. The leading citizens—almost all of whom came from different cities in the sprawling country—held the position of Alreza, leader, for three years each in a strict rotation. It was not exactly the freely-elected democracy the US was hoping for, but perhaps that could be encouraged later.

Sanjou had been chosen as the very first Alreza, the one who would introduce the world to Lurachel. It was not difficult to understand why he had been given this honor. Aside from being a very shrewd, and thus wealthy, merchant and ruler of his own oasis city, he was charming, witty, outgoing, commanding, and more than a touch flirtatious. His delicate, almost feminine features, accentuated with cosmetics, flowing dress, and graceful gestures had incited some speculation among the junior staffers, but since he behaved in the same manner toward both men and women, their bosses decided it might just be a cultural tic.

Sanjou’s command of English was nearly perfect; his advisors were also quite proficient in it, though their accents varied wildly. Sanjou still preferred to make the occasional comment to them in their native tongue, which Toby felt was a deliberate gesture to remind them where they were from.

Slowly the advisors began to get more comfortable in their new surroundings, especially when they encountered topics they were experts on. Some aspects of Lurachel were pleasant surprises to the White House staffers—the ruling citizens were open to computers, higher education, and biotechnology, for example, and health care appeared to be universal. The main bad thing was that instead of being truly unified, the country was made up of semi-autonomous city-states, each with their own variations on the national code of laws. And of course, there was the vast difference between the wealthy, well-educated ruling classes and the peasants who provided the labor; the system was almost feudal, and the Lurachelans saw nothing wrong with it. The only members of the “middle class”—artisans, professionals like doctors and teachers, and those who ran the city-state’s shops—were all agents of the ruler, who controlled everything in the city.

The White House staffers saw many flaws in this system, but Sanjou and his advisors seemed to have taken most of them into account. Toby noticed that they were careful to avoid pointing out the flaws in _America’s_ system, unless they felt particularly badgered on an issue—a shrewd diplomatic move. The dealings were also greatly aided by a satellite hook-up linking the delegation to all the other ruling citizens via PalmTop, so questions could be answered and consensus achieved almost immediately. Toby wondered why no one had thought of it before.

Through the discussions Drakkar knelt quietly in his chair, sipping the glass of water Sanjou had handed him and sketching something on his unlined pad. He appeared to be paying little attention to the meeting itself, though he was alert to every change in position or mood by Sanjou. The Alreza also had the peculiar habit of— _petting_ seemed to be the most descriptive word—the blond every once in a while, just a brief stroke along his arm or shoulder in a casual, affectionate manner that was just a little bit distracting.

At last the group decided to break for lunch and Donna hurried in to collect orders for the kitchen from their daily menu. Sandwiches were popular among the Lurachelans, although when she fixed Drakkar with her lopsided smile, Sanjou answered for him. “Salad and pasta for him. The little barbarian doesn’t eat meat.” The playful remark was punctuated by Sanjou ruffling the other man’s hair; Toby swore he saw Donna blush a little bit as Drakkar smiled and kept his eyes on his drawing.

The Lurachelans didn’t leave their seats until Sanjou did, rising to stretch languidly. The atmosphere was more casual now as they waited for their meals to arrive. Sam was comparing statistics with Rethaniel on the effectiveness of Lurachel’s system of education, which had a decent public school for the masses but fabulous tutoring for the wealthy few; C.J. was sussing out the dynamics of the free press—or lack thereof, another sticking point—with Jadarian. Toby sent his own aids scrambling for the files he intended to use later. When he took a moment to glance around the room, however, he caught sight of the Alreza in his favorite position—lounging on the antique sofa—having a serious conversation with Drakkar, who knelt at his feet and gazed up at him trustingly. It struck Toby as rather unusual, especially the way Sanjou liked to caress his face or hair—almost like he really was a beloved pet. Perhaps they _were_ lovers then, but why bore your lover by bringing him to a policy meeting he did nothing at?

**

Donna was trying desperately to remember the fifteen different tasks she'd just been assigned as she made her way back to her cubicle in the bullpen. She had to call...someone, about...something, and then call...someone else about...a different thing, and she had to check on something and find a file about something and look up something, and she had all the names written down on a scrap of paper--just not with what she was supposed to _do_ with them. So much for lunch out today.

As she approached her desk, however, her rapid pace slowed--there was someone sitting in her chair. Not just someone--Drakkar from the Lurachelan delegation, with the gorgeous green eyes and the adorable smile. She still couldn't believe that he was a slave--that was what Josh had told her, anyway. Unthinkable.

He was holding one of her framed family photos and staring at it intently as she rounded the corner, but he put it back immediately when she stopped next to the desk. "Hello," she said pleasantly. "Can I help you?"

Rising with movements as fluid as the satin navy tunic and leggings he wore, he smiled a bit bashfully and clutched his ever-present notebook to his chest. "I-I have something for you," he told her softly. It was the first time she had ever heard him speak, and his voice was warm and rough at the same time. She didn't even realize he could speak English. He flipped open the notebook and carefully tore a piece of paper out, then handed it to her hesitantly.

Quizzically Donna accepted the sheet of paper. It was a pencil sketch--of her. A very well-done sketch, one that made her look more beautiful than she really thought she was--her nose didn't look so long, and her smile wasn't so lopsided, and her face didn't look so narrow. But it was definitely her. "Wow," she replied breathlessly, glancing back up at his expectant face. "Wow. This is really wonderful."

Drakkar grinned shyly and rocked back on his heels a little. "I hoped maybe you would like it," he said. "My master gave me permission to come and give it to you. Is that okay?" Suddenly he looked so uncertain that Donna rushed to reassure him.

"Oh no, it's beautiful," she insisted. "You're really talented. I love it."

"It's not as good as these drawings, though," Drakkar commented, picking up another of the photos.

"Oh, um, those aren't drawings," Donna explained, feeling a bit awkward. "They're photographs."

Drakkar looked at her in confusion. "Photographs?"

"They're, um..." Donna scrambled for a way to describe them. "They aren't made by people. They're made by special machines."

That seemed good enough for Drakkar, who appeared to feel better as he set the frame back down. "Oh."

"So, you, uh, you like to draw?" Donna asked, unsure how to proceed.

Drakkar brightened. "Oh yes, I like drawing. I do it all the time," he told her. "Master Sanjou says I've drawn every single thing in the palace, from every angle." Donna felt a little uncomfortable with his mention of his "master." "But I like to draw," he continued. "When the Elders of my village saw that I was good at it they said I should be an architect, so that's what they trained me as."

Donna's eyebrows went up in surprise. "You're an architect?"

Drakkar nodded. "Mmmm-hmmm, I helped design Master Sanjou's palace. A little bit," he hedged. "I gave the architect some suggestions." After a pause he added, "But this building is really interesting. I've been drawing parts of it that I like best. See?" He opened up the notebook and turned it so Donna could see. "I really like that entryway with the big seal on the floor. It's very impressive."

Donna smiled and nodded as he flipped to another page, this time of the Oval Office. He really was very good, especially when it came to capturing details she had never even noticed. Finally they hit a page with another portrait of it, this time a profile of Sanjou as he sat in the conference room. Donna glanced at Drakkar's face and found him smiling fondly. Biting her lip a bit nervously, she said, "Drakkar, can I ask you a...a personal question?"

He shrugged. "Okay."

"What's it--" She paused, suddenly uncertain of exactly what she wanted to ask. "Do you like--" He looked up at her expectantly. "I guess I mean--well, you're a slave," she finally blurted. Drakkar nodded easily. "I guess that just--seems weird to me," she finally finished, certain she'd offended him.

Instead Drakkar nodded again. "I understand. Well, I don't understand, I guess," he corrected, "but it happens to me a lot." He folded the notebook back up and leaned against the frame of cubicle. "The man who designed Master Sanjou's palace--Thadru--he didn't like slavery. He tried to get me to leave Master Sanjou--he wanted to buy me and set me free. But he didn't _really_ want to set me free--he wanted me to become his student. And he only wanted to _after_ he found out I could draw." Drakkar shrugged his shoulders a bit ruefully. "Everyone wants something from us, don't they?"

Donna couldn't help but nod in agreement at that. Especially on days like today, it seemed like everyone she met had one more job for her. "Thadru didn't want to free the stable boy or the kitchen maid--he wanted to free me, so he could use me. And the Elders of my village? They didn't care that I wanted to be a farmer, like my father--they saw I could draw, and they made me learn to be an architect. Even Mr. Ziegler--he says it would be better for me, if I asked for--for asylum? Is that the word?"

Donna nodded, biting her lip. "But he just wants me to do that so he can make my master look bad," Drakkar told her, calmly. "I told him I didn't want to, and he said it was because--my master had--washed my brain. That's what Thadru said. He said I didn't even know what I wanted anymore." Drakkar shook his head and pursed his lips. "That makes me mad. At least my master doesn't pretend he _doesn't_ want something from me. And he doesn't tell me what to think."

Donna stood quietly for a minute, trying to think of a response. "But you have to do whatever he says, right?" she asked. "Even if you don't want to?"

Drakkar nodded. "Yes. But don't _you_ have to do things that you don't like?"

She nodded slowly. "Sometimes, I guess...of course I do. But," she added gently, "I don't do them because I'm afraid."

"Don't you?" Drakkar asked, genuinely curious. "If you didn't do what you were told, aren't you afraid you'd lose your job? Or...get kicked out of your house? Or...make people mad at you?" He glanced around at the room, at all the computers and the files and the other employees. "Or I guess here, you might be afraid that if you didn't do something right, someone else might get hurt. Or killed. Isn't that right?"

Donna paused before answering. How many times had she thought about that, worried insanely that if she didn't get some memo done on time it would trigger a series of cataclysmic events resulting in nuclear war, or at least a really bad chewing-out? "But..." she replied. "If I think my job is too stressful, I could quit and find another one. I can choose to change things in my life."

"I can choose not to do what I'm told," Drakkar reminded her.

"But if _I_ don't do what I'm told, I'll get fired," she struggled to explain. "But if _you_ don't do what you're told, you'll get beaten...won't you?" She wasn't sure she wanted to think about that.

"What's the difference?"

She stared at him. "What's the difference?" Donna repeated in surprise. "Well..." It seemed so obvious to her. "It's totally different."

"Why?"

"Um..." Josh was so much better at debating these kinds of things. "Because...getting fired doesn't hurt me physically."

"Doesn't it make you hurt--inside?" he asked softly. He dropped his brilliant green gaze to the tile floor. "I would rather be flogged a hundred times than-than..." Drakkar trailed off and glanced back up at her. "My village was attacked by wandering nomads," he explained quickly. "Everything was burned to the ground. Everyone was killed, or chased into the hills, or taken captive to be sold to the slavers."

He swallowed hard. "I would rather be flogged a hundred times if it would get those pictures out of my head. I don't think physical pain is the worst thing that can happen to a person."

Donna nodded very slowly, thinking about the emotional pain she'd had in her life--her boyfriend dumping her after she'd put him through law school, Josh being shot, that disastrous testimony before the Congressional subcommittee...not all of them were on the level of watching your home village be destroyed, but she still knew exactly what he meant. She felt that somehow she had overlooked some crucial logical flaw in his argument, but then again, wasn't that the point--that life doesn't always treat you logically?

There was a long moment of silence before Drakkar perked up a little bit and added, "Besides, my master takes care of me. Do you have someone who takes care of you?"

Donna smiled sadly and shook her head. Another source of emotional pain. "No, I have to take care of myself."

"If you were a slave, your boss would have to take care of you," Drakkar told her with a grin, nodding towards the closed door of Josh's office. "That's how it works. He would be responsible for you."

Donna laughed and looked at the pile of folders in her arms. "Knowing how well Josh takes care of _himself_ , I'm not sure that would be such a good deal."

As if on cue Josh burst out of his office, took a cursory glance around, and bellowed, "Donna!" at the top of his lungs.

The blond sighed. "He should be _my_ slave," she commented. "I take care of _him_ enough."

Drakkar laughed at that--a throaty, boyish sound that made you wonder what mischief he'd gotten into lately. The unfamiliar voice attracted Josh's attention and he wandered over, just spotting Donna for the first time.

"Hello, Drakkar," he said, curious about the slave's appearance in this part of the building. "Can I help you with something?"

"He brought me a picture he drew of me," Donna explained enthusiastically, showing the sketch to Josh. Drakkar blushed a little bit.

"Wow, that's really good," Josh replied, glancing over the drawing but not really convinced that was the slave's only reason for being there. "That's what you do during the meetings, huh? I guess they must be pretty boring for you."

Looking directly at Donna, Drakkar said apologetically, "I'm sorry, my master only said I could talk to you, and not anyone else."

"I understand," Donna told him immediately, earning a strange look from Josh. "Thank you so much for the picture," she added.

Drakkar nodded and smiled. "You're welcome. I better go now." Notebook in hand, he stepped out of the cubicle and headed towards the door to the hallway.

Donna watched him until he was out of sight. Josh was still looking at the picture as if trying to discern some hidden meaning in it. "That's all he wanted, to give you this?" he asked.

"Hmmmm?" Donna said distractedly, turning back to him.

"He didn't, I don't know, try to seduce state secrets out of you or something?" Josh continued flippantly.

Donna plucked the drawing out of his hand and tucked carefully in her desk drawer. She should get it framed, she decided. "No, he didn't," she responded primly, handing Josh the folder full of notes she knew he'd been missing. "You should be glad, because he wouldn't have had to try very hard." Ignoring Josh's slightly shocked expression, Donna turned her back on him and strutted off to the filing room.


	5. Chapter 5

Updated Chapters 1 and 4. Everything about Emerald has now been posted.


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